


The Long Way Home

by Quilly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, also features Mary Morstan, ask for drunk john and you shall recieve, platonic as the day is long, sherlock needs better-quality fake beards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A disguised Sherlock walks a drunk John home, three years later.</p><p>(Day 9 of Quilly's February OTP Extravaganza. For witchsmart)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Way Home

Your decision to ease John into the realization never accounted for a drunken John trying to walk home and leaning against a brick wall, giggling.

 

You weigh your options. It’s unlikely in his state of inebriation he’d recognize you (even sober he would have trouble), and equally unlikely he will make it home with all his personal possessions. There’s a terribly annoying wheedle of “what if?” in the back of your mind, but you disregard it. Helping John home is hardly the same as bursting into Baker Street—

 

Not Baker Street, anymore. He’d left it shortly after the funeral. You impatiently quash down the tendril of…disappointment? Hurt?...and get on with it.

 

He waves his arms at you when you first grab him under his armpits, but can’t do much more than slur some drivel about “not swinging that way” and “can make it fine alone”.

 

“Where to?” you ask, catching yourself at the last moment and making your voice gruff.

 

John just murmurs. You know the address anyway. It’s a revoltingly charming little flat, four blocks away. You wrap his arm around your neck and set off, John’s sliding legs weaving this way and that and making the going rough.

 

He’s lighter than you remember.

 

The flat is on the third floor and the elevator is broken. Stairs are going to be difficult. You grit your teeth and reinforce your grip on him.

 

“Isniceayah,” John slurs, half-asleep. He finds the stairs immeasurably funny, for whatever reason; his giggling increases in tempo. You power through the puff of bad breath he breathes your way, concentrating on making sure all the legs in the equation work. The struggling has already ripped away the false beard and chin you were wearing, but John didn’t seem to notice. Not much he does notice, at the moment.

 

“’ey,” John slurs at you, grabbing at your shirtfront. “’ey, ‘ey. D’you know what day—what day it is?”

 

You don’t answer, taking a breather on the second floor landing.

 

“It’s Ssshhhherlock Day,” he giggles. “Y’rember that faaaaamous detective? Ssssssherlock Bloody Holmes.”

 

Your mouth twists. It only has a little bit to do with the fact that he’s stepped on the foot that was stabbed a few months prior.

 

“He, uh.” John smacks his mouth. “He jumped. Fffffree years ago. Thour. Free.” He giggles at himself, and on the third floor you stop again, trying to remember the number. “Jumped right off the roof.”

 

“Shame,” you grunt, because he appears to be waiting for a response.

 

“Ssshame, that’s what every—everyone said it,” John sighs. “Th’ones that weren’t—cel-celeb—happy.” He made a grunt that might’ve been another laugh. “I wasn’t. Nope.”

 

Number 304, you think, and struggle that way.

 

“M’bess fren,” he slurs, so quietly you almost miss it.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“M’bess fren,” he repeats, louder. “Bloody…git.” He shakes with silent laughter. “Just jumped. Just like—like that. Tried t’tell me—wasn’t a fake. Too stupid to not be a g-genius.”

 

He’s still shaking as you ring the doorbell, and you realize that what you’d taken for laughter was tears—ugly, salty, snotty tears, his whole body jerking like something vital was being pulled out of him. Your moustache is hanging a little loose and you put your fingers to it to flatten it out and press it to your skin, just as the door opens.

 

Mary Morstan is a pretty woman, a little younger than John, her hips round and hair an alarming shade of red. She takes in the scene on her doorstep and sighs, stepping aside.

 

“Thank you for bringing him home,” she says brightly, and you stumble into the flat and let yourself drink it in. It’s tidy, charming, domestic—utterly hateful. There are pictures, mostly of other redheads, a few of John and Mary together, a couch, telly, coats, mittens. John is still crying, but hanging mostly limp, so you carry him back to the bedroom and lay him out. You would offer to relieve him of jacket and shoes, but realize that may seem too forward for a stranger and Mary is watching. There is one more picture in the room, a somewhat faded newspaper clipping under the weight of a half-drunk glass of water. You touch it without meaning to.

 

“Are you a friend of John’s?” Mary asks.

 

“No,” you reply, because you aren’t anymore, are you? You can’t stop touching the picture.

 

“He gets like this every year about this time,” Mary sighs, leaning against the door frame. “Poor man. I suppose he told you all about why before he passed out?”

 

“He mentioned…” Your own name sticks in your throat. Why can’t you let go of the clipping?

 

“That’s him, there,” Mary gestures. “Sherlock Holmes. I never met him, myself. John was his flatmate, for a while.” She rubs her arms. “He always seemed such a mysterious figure, personally—I never could understand why John would be friends with someone who was as big a berk as he says he was.” She laughs a little, and mechanically you laugh back.

 

“Never thought he was a fake, though,” Mary says comfortably, walking into the room and taking off John’s shoes herself. “Not from the way John describes him.” She looks up at you, and you look back. Her friendly expression fades a little, becoming…wary? You can’t place it, but she isn’t smiling anymore.

 

“John wouldn’t be friends with a man who would lie like that,” she says, and her eyes pierce straight through. You realize your moustache has fallen off. You still don’t match the man in the deerstalker, but you are yourself and there is little mistaking it when Mary’s eyes widen, just so.

 

You stare at each other for a few moments, then your back straightens, you nod, and you make for the front door.

 

“Wait,” Mary calls, just as your hand touches the doorknob.

 

You do, long enough for her to walk up closer. She doesn’t touch you, doesn’t ask you to turn around, but there’s the weight of expectation in the air. You’re not sure what she wants from you.

 

“Thank you,” she says, and there is a large amount of weight behind the words this time. Even you can’t miss it. You jerk your head in a nod and vanish out the door.


End file.
